


i didn't open those doors

by onanotherworld



Series: nudity and coffee [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Fluff, M/M, and nobody knows what enjolras is thinking, poor r's brain doesn't function without at least 2 cups of coffee, the mysteries of life:by jehan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-25 00:58:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2602691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onanotherworld/pseuds/onanotherworld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Grantaire, it's just a normal day. A pigeon flies by with a scattering of feathers, and a car honks in the street below and –</p><p><em>Hello</em> hot neighbour’s abs how fine you look today.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i didn't open those doors

**Author's Note:**

> this was very nearly titled: "oh crap r's seen him nakey" so count yourselves lucky.

It started as a normal day. Grantaire dragged himself up and out of bed, hangover pulsing like a bruise, and stumbled into his kitchen, where he had left the doors to the small balcony open.

Huh.

He didn’t remember opening them. He looked down at the kitchen counter in thought, and saw a note written with jagged permanent marker. Grantaire hopes beyond hope that it hasn’t stained the countertop below it. This apartment is already shitty enough with its damp corners and mildew smell.

The note says: _Thanks for having me over last night. Was great. Left this morning cause I have shift at shop. Coffee is on. Don’t ask why your balcony’s open. - Jehan_

And Grantaire decides he doesn’t want to know. 

True to Jehan’s word, there is coffee in the coffeemaker, and it’s still warm. He pours himself a cup, and stares out double doors. A pigeon flies by with a scattering of feathers, and a car honks in the street below and –

 _Hello_ hot neighbour’s abs how fine you look today. Grantaire stares in shock and lust, as his neighbour walks naked - _completely naked_ and it’s way too early for Grantaire to be dealing with this shit - through to his kitchen and grabs a glass and fills it with orange juice. Buck naked. In his birthday suit. Without a stitch of clothing on him. Mooning the world. Not that the world would mind – Grantaire certainly doesn’t.

He’s actually pretty sure he’s going to burst a blood vessel. 

Just looking at him fills him with the thoughts of what he’d look like with that lovely back arched and screaming his name – no, bad Grantaire, bad. 

Shaking his hand like a dog, he says to himself, _in three seconds, I will stop looking at attractive-god man. Three, two, one._ Grantaire waits expectantly for his head to turn of its own accord, and curses loudly when his eyes remain on the man. The man obviously doesn’t hear him swearing, because he continues on, and Grantaire doesn’t wonder if he likes being looked at because that leads down all sorts of bad roads he can’t think of. 

As the man turns his head to the side, picking up the orange juice, his blond curls swinging, Grantaire forces his eyes to his coffee cup, staring at it like it holds the secrets of the universe. He wants to keep staring, wants to desperately, but he’d be a creeper and this man obviously thinks he’s alone, and, hey, maybe he’s just a nudist, wouldn’t that be a gift to the world?

Grantaire sneaks another glance and actually, physically squeaks, because _dear god he’s just so pretty._ His cup jerks in his hand as his fist reflexively tightens around it. 

And it’s the squeak that finally attracts the man’s attention, and Grantaire hears a mortified, wordless shout, followed by the scraping of a chair.

Grantaire calls weakly after the man, “You might want to put some clothes on.” The man might, but Grantaire certainly doesn’t want him to. 

But, still. He’s not sure that the man hears him, what with the running off and such. 

Grantaire’s still in the same position about two minutes later when the man reappears. Keeping his gaze downwards, focused on the railing of the balcony, he says, “Are you dressed?” 

“Yes,” the man replies, and Grantaire gawks at him. He’s just as pretty with clothes as without. Are those jeans even _legal?_ He’s also blushing like a Botticelli angel, pink dusting lightly over his elegant cheekbones, not the blotchy red Grantaire’s sure he is. “Sorry, y’know, about flashing you,” the man continues, blue eyes embarrassed, feet shifting uncomfortably. 

“Uh.” Grantaire’s sure his brain has gone offline, “Uh – yeah, it’s fine, yeah, yep.” 

“Ah, great.” The man runs a hand through his hair, tousling it artfully. Grantaire feels something in his brain sizzle and die. 

Just as the man is about to shuffle off, hiding his face beneath his hair, Grantaire blurts, “Grantaire.”

“What?” the man says, turning partway around.

“Um. That’s my name, I’d like to speak to you again, when we’re both less mortified?” Grantaire’s face is burning. He’s absolutely positive NASA can see the blazing red beacon of his face from space. Stupid. Stupid. That was the worst way to go about things. Now he’s going to seem like a creeper, or worse. Stupid, stupid, Gran-

Surprisingly, the man nods, seemingly endeared by Grantaire’s stuttering turn of phrase, “Okay,” he agrees, “Mine’s Enjolras. How about tomorrow morning, same time, same place. With more clothes, obviously.” 

Grantaire can’t believe his ears. He gives a breathy chuckle. “Yeah. Sure. Clothes. See you tomorrow,” he adds as Enjolras walks deeper inside his apartment, then shuts his mouth before anything else can come out of it. 

“Enjolras, Enjolras,” Grantaire rolls the name around in his mouth. It fits perfectly. “ _Ange_ jolras.” That sounds even better.

“Also,” Enjolras shouts from the depth of his apartment, “you might want to close your own balcony doors yourself. I saw you last night.” 

Grantaire thunks his head down on his kitchen counter and hears laughter drift across the space between the balconies. 

He _really_ doesn’t want to know.


End file.
